


Violent Chemistry

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Black Panther (2018), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Vampires, Violence, someone kidnaps T'Challa and Ross goes into beast mode, vampire!ross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-18 12:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: It would be an understatement to say no one had been expecting Agent Ross to go off the deep end when news reached them that T'Challa had been killed in a hijacking on the edge of Wakanda airspace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel's "Black Panther." Or the "Avengers" series characters. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: I was trying to get this up before Halloween but that didn't quite happen. This is a Ross x T'Challa story.
> 
> Warnings: vampires, vampire!Ross, blood drinking, violence and gore. Someone kidnaps T'Challa and Ross goes into rage mode, pre-relationship, romance, drama, pining.

It would be an understatement to say no one had been expecting Agent Ross to go off the deep end when news reached them that T'Challa had been killed in a hijacking on the edge of Wakanda airspace.

It would probably be more accurate to say he'd dropped an atomic bomb into the Marianas trench and rode the shock wave, complete with sharp teeth and claws. Leaving a gory, but righteous trail of blood and bodies in his wake.

For all intents and purposes, the moment Agent Ross learned of the crash, he went AWOL. Suddenly turning up in Paris, Mumbai, Los Angelus, Rome, Siberia, Ottawa, Kenya. Slaughtering entire enemy compounds one by one. No one knew how he'd done it or how he'd gotten the information, but one by one he hit every responsible party. Destroying operations S.H.E.I.L.D had been dreaming of taking down for years in less than hours. Each time moving too fast for them to follow as they scrambled to put together the pieces, always managing to be five steps behind.

There was only one problem.

T'Challa wasn't dead.

Not yet anyway.

"We need to tell him," Natasha pointed out. Voice as firm as her expression as she watched Agent Ross through the one-way interrogation glass. Pointedly not turning away as he changed into the clean suit he'd requested. Peeling off the blood-soaked slick of his suit jacket and pants without a hint of discomfort. Pale, freckled skin on display for all to see as he let the shirt and trousers stay where they fell. Pulling on the fresh pair they'd fitted with a tracker as a precaution.

More than a few lips twitched when Agent Ross raised his hand up to the glass. Letting them watch as a long black claw grew out of the nail bed of his index finger. Pausing for a long moment before the claw slid into the pocket where the tracker was hidden and cut it out with a swift jerk. Letting it drop to the floor with a hollow, significant sound before looking up again. Barely missing a beat as the hooked claw retracted and he started doing up the buttons of the dress shirt.

One of the techies sucked in a breath.

But otherwise everyone stayed quiet.

And for good reason.

His old suit was shredded, pock-marked with bullet-holes, knife slashes and charred by explosions. The same wounds they'd watched heal in real time on the surveillance tapes. Any time one of the enemy connected a blow, sharp claws ripped out the nearest throat in retribution. Lips curled in an animal snarl that transformed his face into something nightmarish and dark, as he drained them dry. Leaving them broken and torn into at the neck. A brutal example of cause and effect.

But it was more than that.

She knew vengeance when she saw it.

They all did.

Whatever Agent Ross was, he'd revealed himself for one reason and one reason only.  _Revenge_. All that self control had snapped like a rope pulled tight the same day T'Challa's ship had been blown out of the sky. Reduced to nothing but tangled metal and charcoal-bones.

"I don't think that is the most pressing issue right now," Tony pointed out, jabbing at a computer-read out that he flicked towards the wall projector and expanded in front of their eyes. Showing a completely normal human x-ray, versus the x-ray that'd been taken when Agent Ross had been fighting his way through the third enemy stronghold in Berlin. "We don't know what he is or what his deal is. Somehow he got past our radar, the C. , and has been within sniffing distance of all of us. God knows what else we don't know. What are the Wakandans saying?"

"Nothing," Clint broke in. Shifting from his perch on the edge of the table. Looking at the playback of Ross flipping over a glass partition and landing gracefully. Sending a trio of enemy soldiers flying like it was as effortless as breathing and not impossible. For Thor, maybe. But without some other ability? Not likely. Hitting slow-motion as the moment Ross had shifted. Exhaling, chin to chest, before looking up to flash red eyes and sharp, vampiric teeth. "I get the feeling they didn't know, but I'm sure they're watching."

"He went M.I.A on their watch," Tony interjected, tapping the screen until the x-ray turned into an animation. Morphing from human to- whatever he was and then back again, over and over. "Are you telling me they have nothing?"

"Nothing they want to share," Clint returned. Switching to the video they had of the moment they'd caught up with him in Kenya. How the red had faded from his eyes and returned to blue as Agent Ross stepped out into the blazing sun as the sound of distant explosions started going off behind him. Blood had been dripping off him like he'd been doused it in it. Chin smeared with red as his tongue flicked out to clean the gore from his lips. Absolutely unbothered by the fact that he was surrounded or that Tony had at least a half dozen of his best weapons aimed directly at him. "Same as him."

"Which puts us back at square one. What is he? How dangerous is he? What does he want?" Tony shot back, typing furiously on his tablet before tossing at a startled tech to catch. "And hey- while we're at it, where does all this stop?"

The man in question approached the double-sided glass, causing the room to tense. Using the reflection to adjust his tie and smooth his hair. Looking every inch the Agent they'd all known - whether from first-hand experience or just his photo file. Making it hard to believe that hours ago they'd watched him sink his teeth into a half dozen throats and drink his fill. Presumably getting some sort of intel before he set the reactors in the compound to blow and walked out to meet them.

For such a clusterfuck of a situation, he'd actually done them a favor. More than one, actually. What Ross had managed to do in less than seventy-two hours, they'd been trying to destroy or at least infiltrate for decades.

Steve shook his head. Getting to his feet and approaching the glass as Agent Ross finished with the buttons of his suit and shrugged his shoulders. Adjusting the fit meticulously, nose twitching.

"Normally I'd agree, but somehow I don't think he's a threat. This is Agent Ross we're talking about," Steve murmured, staring through the glass the same moment Agent Ross seemed to look right at him. "He's a straight shooter. We've all seen his record. Seems to me this is more of a last stand than anything. Think about it, Tony. He's spent all this time normal, the same as us. Then he thinks T'Challa is gone.  _That's_  when he goes off the deep end. Not before. Not even when it meant his life. He kept it under wraps until now. But the way he's going? I've seen it before. He doesn't plan to get out of this alive."

Tony frowned.

"Why? How do we know?"

"Because he loves him," Natasha finished quietly, breathing through it as all the little pieces suddenly clicked together. Like the way Ross had spent the better portion of a year going back and forth to Wakanda before the agency had gotten tired of getting bare bones intel and called him state-side for a meeting.

It hadn't gone well. But in the end there had been nothing the agency could do when T'Challa named him the country's official foreign adviser. After that, the government had to be content with the scraps T'Challa wanted released and nothing more. Figuring it was better to have a man on the inside than nothing at all.

Still, anyone with eyes could see Ross and T'Challa went way beyond politics. It wasn't a position or a job that'd kept Ross from spilling, it was loyalty and respect. And eventually, something more.

"You only lose control like that when you lose someone you love," Clint remarked, chin tipping into his chest for a long moment before straightening again.

On the other side of the glass, Agent Ross pulled out a chair and sat down at the table facing them. Every action smooth and careful, fingers laced, staring back at them with an eerie quiet that itched between the shoulder blades.

"Either way, he stays put," Tony repeated eventually, switching to a live feed of the compound where they believed T'Challa was being held. "No one tells him anything until we have our guy."

But Natasha just shook her head.

"You don't understand. I asked him to stand down and come in and he did. He wasn't captured and he isn't contained.  _He allowed it._  We only have one chance to get this right. If we want to get anything from him, we have to tell him. And the truth is, if anyone can get T'Challa out of there alive, it's him."

* * *

His eyes were their usual blue when she sat down opposite him at the interrogation table. Nothing like the red-rimmed dark in the security feeds. The type of shadowed glow that harkened back to eldritch, old world fears and monsters that lurked in the dark.

It was like she'd seen two completely different people fused into one.

Maybe that was more accurate than she realized.

Or maybe not.

"Thank you for coming in," she opened crisply. Realizing with a slow-moving prickle down her spine just how long he'd managed to pull the wool over their eyes. He'd worked with her directly for years and she'd never suspected a thing.

_Impressive._

"Cut the crap, Agent Romanoff," he returned bluntly. Expression dead save for the exhausted purpose burning in the back of his eyes. A stark difference from an Agent she'd reviewed personally, more than once, as an asset to the agency. Balanced, cool-headed, by the book, loyal, altruistic- but flexible.

It was a look she was familiar with.

But only in the mirror.

"What do you want?" he stated coolly. Like he knew there was something.

_Of course he did._

Her curls kissed her shoulders as she tilted her head. Catching a flash of blunt human teeth as he spoke. Knowing they were a lie. She seen that first hand. Long fangs all but kissing his bottom lip as he'd lifted a man up with his bare hand, bloody fingers tight around the man's windpipe. Hissing coldly before flinging him away like he weighed nothing but paper. Powerful. Feral. Vengeful. So controlled you knew he was anything but under the surface.

"Information for information," she answered. Gratified to see a flicker of something pass over his expression before the mask fell back down.

She let the words rest on her tongue before she let them go. Knowing their weight. Knowing it was a risk. But also knowing it had to be done. She knew this kind of pain. If it didn't end here, now,  _on their terms_ , it could be a disaster.

"T'Challa is alive. The explosion was a ruse. He's being held prisoner by a special interest group that has ties to the Kremlin."

The air might as well have been a flash-point. With Agent Ross's eyes flooding red. Fists clenching so tight in his lap she could hear the bones creaking.

"He's alive?" Ross whispered, bleeding a devastated, desperate hope that was thick with disbelief. It was all there. Real.  _Honest._  Making the knot in her chest untighten a fraction. Confident they hadn't read this wrong.

She nodded.

"We haven't been able to get to him. We have operatives inside but so far, its been too dangerous to attempt an extraction."

"Not for me."

She inclined her head. Believing it.

"So I see."

There was barely a breath between that and the next question.

"Where is he?" Agent Ross demanded, tone quiet but vibrating with violence.

"Answer my questions first," she countered. "Then, you'll have the coordinates. We'll even take you there."

There was another pause. But he didn't nod, didn't give her a polite opening. He just stared at her expectantly. Tired. Bored.

"What are you?" she finally asked. Feeling the tension building behind the one-way glass at her back.

His lip twitched. Like amusement, but darker.

"What do I look like?" he asked instead. Long lashes highlighting the dark hollows that stood out like track-marks below his eyes.

Her eyes narrowed.

He wanted her to say it.

_Why?_

"I was never told what I was turned into," Agent Ross told her, the corners of his lips lifting in a half smirk - like a pit of sharp edges. "But we've always had a word for it, haven't we?"

Her exhale was rooted in old world Russia fears. Emotional connections to a place she'd left behind long ago. But apparently still managing to affect her when she least expected it.

"A vampire."

He nodded. "It ticks the boxes, more or less."

"But not sunlight," she interjected.

He smiled like a knife slash before shaking his head.

"Legends can only be passed on for so long before they stop being accurate. I suppose it made people feel better, to believe that monsters only lurked in the dark and not the light as well."

_How old was he?_

It was a sudden thought. But she still turned it over in her mind anyway. Running a tally of contrasting facts and personality quirks as she thought back to the print out of information gleaned from his private residence.  _Nothing._  Ross' apartment was just personal enough to say it was lived in. There were personal affects, signs of wear, but not to the level there should have been. In all likelihood he had another place. Even the most practical people clung to sentiment. It was part of the human condition. The inevitable collection of little things that could be used against you or even traced back to reveal your origins.  _Your weak spots._

"Is that what you are?" she asked. "A monster?"

"Depends on who writes the history, or so I am told," Agent Ross replied, rubbing distractedly at his wrist before- "Do you think I am?"

"Are you a threat to us?" she asked steadily. Countering his question with one of her own.

It was that, out of everything, that finally got a reaction. Watching as his spine straightened. Angry. Like everything about the question was insulting and distasteful. Looking more like himself than he had in days as he fixed her with a flinty stare.

"I have always been willing to die for my country. That hasn't changed. What I am doesn't affect what I do as an Agent or what I'm doing now. I destroyed those compounds for a reason – for T'Challa – but also for us. For the world. My career might be over, but I made sure to use the opportunity for good. That matters. Even if the C.I.A doesn't see it that way, I do. And that's enough for me."

It was enough for her too. Enough for her to clear her throat and slide over the tablet with the coordinates and a live view of the enemy compound. Nodding for him to take it as he reached forward and studied it. Apparently committing it all to memory before setting it to the side and looking over at her. Body language changing, but not aggressive enough to make her get to her feet with him as his chair hushed back with a low, metallic clatter.

"Thank you, Agent Romanoff," Ross told her as he smoothed the sleeves of his suit in a familiar flick. Something in his posture triggering as she watched him closely. "But an escort won't be necessary."

Then, before she had a chance to say anything, just like all those times before, Agent Ross disappeared from the interrogation room between one blink and the next. Leaving behind nothing but a wisp of fog and the scent of singed pine as the echo of Tony's muffled curse issued from the other side of the glass.

She shook her head, biting back the small, impressed smile that threatened to make tracks.

She'd wish him luck, but somehow she didn't think he would need it.


	2. Chapter 2

He waited until he was free of the facility, appearing on a random side street in Oahu, before jumping again. While he was sure that Mr. Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D had no way of tracking his movements – yet - he had always lived by the rule of 'better safe, than sorry.' Two jumps later, he arrived at one of his many safe houses. This one was a modest, nondescript apartment in Arlington and the only bolt-hole Wakanda was aware of. His nose twitched at the stale smell of old air and dust. Only pausing long enough to ensure there was no sign of unwelcome guests before he crossed into the living room, then the kitchen, stirring up dust motes from the plastic sheeting draped over the furniture.

It wasn't his favorite property, but it was convenient. He hadn't been here for more than a few days over the last year, but the dust build-up was around the same as last time. One of the pluses of living in an established urban setting, he supposed. He'd lived long enough to know two things for sure, always have at least a few closely kept secrets and second, learn how to invest. Living as long as he had, the second one was almost as important as the first. That and knowing _when_  to buy. He'd purchased this particular apartment when it had first been built, close to sixty years ago. Eventually he'd sell for a tidy profit and buy elsewhere. Cycling through the highs and lows of real estate. His investors had to change quite regularly, of course. It was hard to explain why cashing out for retirement wasn't in his best interests.

Somewhere down the hall, the sudden taint of blood teased, catching him off guard as a quiet curse reached him next, quickly followed by the clatter of a paring knife. But even that small amount was enough to make him shift. To turn towards the door and think about seeking it out. To wonder how it would taste on his tongue as he closed his eyes and took it in. Middle aged. Male. Impending liver failure. Brined in Johnny Walker Blue and red meat. Delicious.

_No!_

The dusty air tasted like a flashburn on his tongue as he shrugged. Shaking his claws away as the red-tint threatened to flood over his vision. Rage peaking like blood-lust as he scented the air again. Instinctively searching for a vein. So far beyond a hair-trigger he felt like an exposed nerve.

Not now.

Not yet.

Not when there was so much to lose.  
Because T'Challa was alive.

_Alive._

He grabbed the communication bracelet and ear-piece he'd left in a hidden compartment in the kitchen and slipped it on his wrist. Clearing his throat with a rough sound that echoed like dread before he lifted the vibranium beads to his lips.

"Shuri? You there?"

There was a pause.

A hum of static.

An inhale of hesitation.

Then-

"Yes."

He closed his eyes. Slumping against the counter. Grateful in a way he couldn't explain as he recalled the way he'd left. Shuri had needed him. She'd been looking at him when the transmission came through. And he'd just left. He hadn't been able to handle it. Like a switch being flipped, red had flooded his vision and he'd stumbled out of the room, desperate for open air. Expression lost in a rictus snarl as he'd jumped without thinking. Appearing on the cliff edge where the wreckage of T'Challa's transport was strewn and smoking across the rocky hills.

He hadn't been able to find T'Challa's scent.

He just been gone.

_Erased._

It wasn't until that moment, clothes whipping in the mountain wind, that he realized he'd done the one thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't do. Somehow, in spite of everything, he'd fallen for him.  _Loved him._  And in that same moment, just like the first time, he'd lost it all.

"How much have you seen," he asked quietly. Knowing they'd been watching. Know that they knew. He'd avoided the scent of the Dora Milaje the few times they appeared. He'd even caught sight of General Okoye, though she didn't see him. He could have waited. They could have hunted together. He could have answered their questions or faced judgement for what he was. For the lie he'd let them believe. That he was normal- not a monster. But he hadn't.

_He couldn't._

"Enough," Shuri answered unsteadily. Able to picture her bracing against the counter in her lab. Struggling to keep her voice even.

He hated it.

_Every. Single. Inch._

He'd never wanted this.

_Not any of it._

But when he thought T'Challa was dead, he'd snapped. Broke. Part of him wanting it to be over. Part of him wanting revenge _. Vengeance_. And maybe even a part that was determined to make the world a bit better as he left it.

He was so tired.

So tired of holding the monster back that even-

"Agent Ross?"

He let the backwash of every intrusive thought roll off him like water. Swallowing down the nausea that threatened to surge at the note of fear lurking in the back of her voice. Telling himself that he'd known this moment was coming. Eventually. He'd just been lucky not to disappoint the people he cared about until now.

"He's alive. T'Challa is alive. It was a set-up. I know where he is and I'm leaving for there now. I'll bring him back. I promise."

He forced himself to stay quiet as she inhaled sharply. The sudden absence of sound helping him pick up the hum of hurried orders in the background. He let it filter in. Catching phrases. Words. He'd still be working on picking up the language.

"I know, we've been watching," she answered. "Mr. Stark's security is not as strong as he believes. We found out the same time you did."

The corner of his mouth inched up.

Of course she had.

_Good girl._

He closed his eyes, fangs shivering in his gums, eager go be let out.

"I am sorry I left," he told her quietly, voice rough in the softest way possible as he swallowed hard. "You didn't deserve that- especially from me. You needed me and I left. I couldn't tell you."

"You could have," she retorted. Quick on the mark and maybe even a bit angry. Voice slightly distorted, like she'd was moving. Making him wonder if even now she was boarding a ship to T'Challa's location.

_Yes. He probably could have told her._

He  _could_  have told T'Challa.

He _should_  have told T'Challa.

"I'm not good at this," he admitted, running a hand down his face as he looked through the kitchen window into the pathetic little courtyard that never had any visitors. It had been perfect when he'd purchased it, but now it just seemed to stand for everything he'd been trying to avoid. Like how lonely he'd been until T'Challa had forced his way into his life somehow. "For what it's worth, it's been a long time...for a lot of things."

It had been a long time since he'd lost control.

A long time since he'd shown himself, willingly.

A long time since he'd tasted red, fresh and tapped right from the vein.

A long time since he'd had to fight the craving.  _The addiction._

A long time since he'd felt the way he did whenever T'Challa looked at him and grinned. When T'Challa would seek him out at the end of the day, just to talk. And the way he'd started to do the same. Spending long hours together until it was hard to tell where the job ended and his personal life began. He'd even started to think that maybe-

"Everett?"

He wrenched himself away from the window with a vicious snap. Joints aching. Already feeling the thirst filter through him like a sudden low. Just like an addict.

His lip curled.

"Everett?" Shuri repeated, acting like she was going to say more before trailing off. Surprising him by using his given name for the first time.

"I'm here," he assured quietly. Swallowing around a lead weight lodged in his throat. "Just tell the Dora Milaje to stay out of my way."

The connection crackled slightly, like she was shaking her head.

"You try telling them that," Shuri returned darkly.

"I mean it," he warned. Leaving the rest unsaid. Unsure of how to say that if things got bad, really bad, he might not be in control. He might not be able to stop himself from-

"I know," she returned simply. Not adding anything she couldn't claim to mean a hundred percent. Not telling him she trusted him. Or that he would do the right thing. Only respecting that he knew his own mind and limitations.

He exhaled, shuddering. Shoulders hunching like he was trying to ward off a chill. Feeling the warm high of the blood start to dull - fading like light in his veins. He hated this part. The part that ate at him no matter how many times he'd gone through the process. Already feeling lesser. Less strong. Less angry.  _Less alive._ The only thing that made it bearable was knowing it wouldn't last. That soon enough he'd be sinking his teeth into another throat and drinking his fill. Getting his strength back so that he could get T'Challa out safely.

He hadn't thought past that.

_He couldn't._

There was only one thing left to do.

He took a deep breath, then willingly fell.

"Shuri. I need you to promise me something. There is a gravestone in Sussex. It's old world, but the headstone is new. Would you make sure it's maintained if I don't make it back? You should be able to find it through the records, under the surname "Leer."

Because that was the thing, even if it all ended well, he'd probably still loose.

He'd lose T'Challa.

Lose Wakanda.

Lose himself.

Maybe he'd even find a way to end it after all.

Maybe.

"Of course," Shuri responded, out of breath and uneven as the sound of ship thrusters crackled across the connection. "But… Everett there's something you should know. You need to come back. He never got around to telling you, but T'Challa lov-"

He cut off the communication there. Too scared to hear it as he let the ear-piece fall to the floor with an electric hiss.

After that there was only blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Six months later, he was sitting quietly on a bench in front of a grave colored with fresh flowers when the hush of familiar footsteps reached him.

It wasn't a surprise.

In fact, he'd been expecting it.

It was what happened next he was unsure about.

He closed his eyes, letting the weak English sun beam down. Remembering how it'd felt last year around this time. And the year before that. Rituals like this were important. Especially considering there was a parking lot where his old house used to be. A thriving, concrete city in the place of thick trees and lonely stretches of farmland.

He was still getting used to it.

"May I sit?" T'Challa asked, shadow blocking the sun as he nodded and opened them. Blinking out the brightness. Trying not to read too much into the fact that he'd come alone. Without weapons. He wasn't even wearing the fanged necklace that turned into his armor.

_What did that mean?_

He shook himself. Absolutely refusing to let anything even remotely hopeful rise to the surface as he straightened and made room. Setting his bag on the ground between his legs as the scent of moist earth and grass rose to meet him. Last year there had still be a few petals clinging to the thorny bushes beside the bench. The same one he'd planted just over a decade before.

_The girls had loved roses._

"Please," he invited, tipping his head like the last six months hadn't changed anything. That they were still friends. Still...whatever they were to each other as T'Challa settled comfortably beside him. Smelling of familiar things. Things he'd started to identity as home before T'Challa had been kidnapped.

"Your family?" T'Challa asked quietly. But with the air of someone who'd spent months researching it intimately. Enough that it wasn't a question at all.

He nodded anyway.

"A long time ago," he agreed, allowing the slow rush of memory as he stared at the names etched into the tombstone.  _Mother. Daughter. Son. Son. Daughter._  "Ancient history for most."

His eldest girl had had been strong. Just like her mother. She'd wanted things no girl could have at the time. Things like a higher education and an occupation outside of the home. Something she could use to make her own way in the world, despite knowing full well that her future concerned a husband, a household and children of her own. But that hadn't stopped him from indulging her all the same. For wanting the best for her, no matter how impossible it was. He'd taught her everything he knew. And as the years had turned her from a chubby little thing to a girl approaching womanhood, she'd always been hungry to fill her head with more.

"I am sorry," T'Challa murmured, catching his profile as the man rose and bowed in front of the grave. Murmuring a few brief phrases he didn't understand before bowing again and returning to the bench.

It felt ceremonial.

_Respectful._

"So was I, when I clawed my way out of it," he finally answered. Wondering the entire time if he should have just thanked him and allowed the moment to move on. Only he didn't. He didn't want to hide anything anymore.

Not from T'Challa.

It had taken him a while to realize it, back when he was still clawing at the walls and half-insane with the need to feed. That everything he'd done, everything, had been for him. There had been so many times over the years he could have used his baser nature to his advantage, but he hadn't- not until the moment he thought he'd lost him for good.

T'Challa broke the silence.

"How did it happen?"

His lip quirked. Allowing himself to own yet another of his last 'first times.'

He'd never told anyone this story.

He'd never had to.

He'd never let himself get that close, to anyone, ever.

Until he'd met T'Challa.

"Quickly. Violently," he started, exhaling in a low rush that made T'Challa's body language shift with awkward interest. "I was a doctor then, of a sort. Nothing official by today's standards, but with enough knowledge to be called upon when someone was sick or dying. Mostly setting bones and suturing wounds. Everything you'd expect from a quiet, country life.

In truth, it had kept the farm running more often than not. If the people couldn't pay in coin, they'd made up for it in other ways. Sending their sons to help come harvest or bringing milled flour for bread and canned preserves in the winter. Many of them had become fast friends, riding carts between each others farms to visit. His girl had been sweet on one of the neighbour's sons. And they'd grown to love the life they'd made for themselves, even if it was poor and a bit wild.

"We - me and my wife - had a farm. It was small, nothing to brag about, but it was ours. We had everything we needed. Especially when the children were born. We had three little ones. My eldest, Sarah and the twins, Daniel and John. We had another on the way- it would have been almost six months before-"

He broke off. Struggling.

Mary had been so happy.

She'd been so sure it was a girl.

"One day, our neighbor sent a rider. One of the women a few farms over was about to deliver and it wasn't going well. They thought the baby might have been turned the wrong way and the closest mid-wife was miles away. So I went. It was the middle of the day. I didn't even have time to kiss any of them goodbye. I just got on my horse and rode as fast as it could carry me. It was pure luck I got there in time. I was able to reposition him. She was exhausted, barely able to push, but she'd already had seven before, so she knew what she was about. The father – Milton - wept like it was his first when I handed the boy to him. He was a good man and he had a wife to match. I remember it all so clearly. That moment. When the baby made it's first cry. When I got the bleeding stopped and the mother propped up in bed so she could nurse. Even when the other children burst in, wanting to see. But the rest? Most of it is a blur."

He wasn't sure if he wanted it to be and had willed it into being. Or if that was just how memory worked. How the years took and didn't give anything back. Because he didn't remember. Not everything. It was all bits and pieces. Scattered and out of order.

"By the time I got home, it was already over. He'd watched me leave - he'd been watching us for days. When I left? That was when he'd come after them. He knew he'd have time. And he used it. He took his time with them. My horse was tired, so l let it go at its own pace on the way back. If I'd known, I might have got there before-"

He broke off, choking on it.

It had been over two hundred years, but it still stung,

_It still hurt so fucking badly._

T'Challa said nothing.

He didn't blame him.

"The children were...they were already gone by the time I got there. There was so much blood... I slipped in it coming into the house. I remember being so surprised, angry even. I jammed my knee in door frame. The fact that it was blood didn't sink in, not at first."

Sarah had been crumpled in the parlor. Neck a mangled horror of blood and torn flesh. Her eyes had been open, giving him hope at first. Wide. Sightless. Dead. There was broken porcelain glittering on the floorboards. The scent of burning – burnt food – tarting the air. Her hand was still fisted around the fire poker, like she'd tried to use it as a weapon. While the other was just bloody, clutching a scrap of the twins' blanket.

He'd never seen any sign of the twins.

He'd never made it past the kitchen.

T'Challa's hand migrated to the tense middle ground between them.

Close enough to touch, but not quite daring to take the final step to do so.

"I made it to the kitchen and he was there. My wife was in his lap. It was hard to understand at first- what I was seeing. Her hair was loose, the front of her dress was gaped - ripped. There was blood running down her neck. And his teeth- they were- they were sunk deep in her neck, finishing the last of her. The rest is a blur. I know I got a shot off. He was slow because he was holding her. But it didn't matter, I was trying to reload when he grabbed me. I don't remember the bite. But I remember the way it burned. I remember feeling weak as he drained me. And…that was it. Some of his blood must have gotten into my mouth, though. Because the next thing I was aware of was coming to six feet under."

There hadn't been enough air to scream. But he'd done it silently anyway. Suffocating into the press of familiar skin and the white muslin his wife and daughter wore to church every Sunday. Choking on grave dirt and putrefying flesh as he wrenched himself up and up and up. Splintering the casket lid with a violent, impossible fist until-

"Someone must have found us, I don't know how long after, but our neighbors buried us together in one coffin. There wasn't much money, so it was common at the time. I had to claw my way out. I didn't understand what had happened. Not until the hunger set in and I found myself in a pile of dead sows, all of them drained at the neck. Then I knew. Somehow he'd made me into what he was."

"And your maker?" T'Challa asked, voice quiet. Resonating in that gentle way he had as the man's accent shivered warmth through his aching joints. Still feeling the withdrawals even now.

His lip twitched, washed clean with dark humor as he let the memory play out in his mind's eye. Watching the rose petals flutter in the wind, almost translucent against the granite headstone.

"Oh, I found him, eventually," he shared darkly.

Found was an understatement.  
_  
He'd hunted him._

It had been about rage - about revenge – when he'd stalked him hundreds of miles across the English country-side. But the moment they were face to face again it was about something else as well. Because as much as he'd hated Kurien, he'd also been drawn to him. Unknowingly connecting to a baser, animal instinct where members of the same species were urged to make bonds and stay close.

Kurien had known who he was almost instantly. Smelling his claim on him as the killing blow he'd attempted faltered. Finding himself falling to his knees as thin lips drew up in a predatory smile. Looking down at him arrogantly as he'd trembled in the dirt, starved and grieving.

"He was quite open with me. He'd never been able to sire a companion and took to me quite warmly. I learned everything I needed from him, then I killed him. He'd been one of them for so long he'd forgotten what it is to love. It'd never occurred to him that I would kill him for what he did. Or that I even could. But I was lucky, I caught him by surprise. And I had humanity on my side," he commented mildly, smiling unevenly like it was some kind of joke.

He didn't talk about the startled, uncomprehending look that flooded across Kurien's face when he cut his throat. Sinking his fangs deep into his maker's neck as he sliced through the remaining veins and drank until the entire world painted itself red.

It hadn't made him feel any better.

But it had ended it.

"Shuri found this place months ago. But you stayed away," T'Challa pointed out eventually, evasive and not voicing the question of why. "Where have you been, Everett?"

His shoulders tensed at the sound of his given name.

Suddenly very much aware it had been a long time since he'd heard anyone use it.

_Where had he been?_

_He'd been everywhere._

_Nowhere._

Beside him, T'Challa swallowed hard. Fidgeting with the soft material of his pant legs.

He looked straight ahead, fingers slowly leaving indents in the underside of the bench.

Neither of them looked it, but the anxiety radiating off them was almost choking.

"I waited for you to come to me…I wanted to speak with you…"T'Challa admitted softly.

He nodded, still looking straight ahead as the scent of vibranium twitched in across his senses. Able to catch it on the breeze. Enough to indicate the transport T'Challa had arrived on was somewhere nearby.

Again, he tried not to think about what that meant.

"I needed time. Every time I let that part out – especially like that, I have to wean myself off the fresh stuff. Think of it like an addiction. Once an addict, always an addict," he admitted ruefully, able to own that this time had been the worst. He'd never let himself go as far as he had when he thought he was dead. "It never really goes away, but time makes it more manageable."

"Fresh blood?" T'Challa questioned, completely without judgement or disgust.

He nodded, realizing in a strange way it was even therapeutic.

He'd never told anyone any of this.

After all, who would believe it?

"From the vein, yes. Think of it like a detox, if it helps," he explained, a muscle in his cheek pulling tight when they met eyes for the first time. "To keep up that kind of strength I need fresh blood and a lots of it. Its a drug when it is like that and for all intents and purposes, I'm an addict. I usually get by with private donors. Normally, once every couple of weeks. Animal blood only works as a quick fix, if you're desperate. Otherwise, it has to be human. Luckily, in America, healthcare is so privatized no one questions why you need what amounts to a private blood bank at your disposal."

T'Challa cocked his head, considering it, before speaking again.

"So when you rescued me, you were at your peak strength?"

"More or less," he answered, flashing to the moment he'd taken out the last wall. He hadn't had enough energy to teleport. Instead, he'd punched a hole clear through the concrete and rebar until he caught a glimpse of T'Challa on the other side. Struggling behind an electric shield barrier that smelled like stray neurons and singed skin.

His heart had been in his throat. Humming a vicious, crooning tune inside his head as he forced his way into the room and drove his fist into the control panel. Killing the power to the shield before he looked up and found T'Challa staring at him, eyes wide.

_He had been scared of him._

"In order to keep teleporting and healing, I need it like- like you saw. It's why I keep myself on a short leash. It would be easy for me to justify it. To do what I did at the compound and feel no guilt – knowing what they were, what they'd done. But I'm afraid of where it would stop if I let myself have that much freedom."

T'Challa inclined his head, nodding.

"A wise man knows his demons...and himself. If you know them, they only have the power you give them. Nothing more."

His smile was tighter this time. Uncomfortable at apparently being let off the hook. But he still nodded, too hungry for the scraps of T'Challa's forgiveness to let pride get in the way. And yet, something about the words  _itched_. In his experience, the demon could be the same as the man. Nothing was ever that black and white. Or easy.

A few rows away, an old woman settled onto a blanket in front of a small headstone. Slowly unpacking a meal for one as she spoke to the faceless granite with lonely fondness. It was always the hardest on those who were left behind. He should know.

"You have always been an honest man, Everett," T'Challa said after a moment, fingers steepling in front of him on his lap. "And I've always felt like I know who you are.  _What_ you are."

He snorted, about to say something. But T'Challa held up his hand, quieting him with a look.

"I'll admit it hurt me deeply in the beginning, that you felt you couldn't tell me. Especially after our friendship grew. It didn't feel equal to the trust I'd come to expect from you," T'Challa murmured. Making him burn with quiet shame as his hands wrung in his lap. Creaking the bones with dangerous pressure. "But the longer it sat, curdling in the back of my mind, the more I came to understand why. In a world of impossible things, it's strange to admit you seem more impossible than flying men in armored suits and aliens from other galaxies. I know why you didn't tell me, but still wish you had."

He sighed, shaking his head. Hating that T'Challa seemed so ready to forgive him. Riding twinned waves of relief and self-disgust as he shifted uncomfortably. Not sure what to do with the realization that T'Challa wasn't looking at him like he had in the compound. He was looking at him like those last few days in Wakanda. When things started evolving on them in the warmest ways and he stayed awake at night, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what the hell he was getting himself into and why it didn't worry him like he figured it should have.

There had been no alarm bells.

No guilt.

Just anticipation and good feelings.

He took a deep breath, determined to at least try and explain it.

But just like always, words fell short.

"I'm not a good person, your majesty. I try to be. I am when I can. But I don't always manage it. This is what I am, sharp bits and all. I've just had good practice and even better incentive to hide it."

"Sounds rather human to me," T'Challa told him quietly. Lips curling in a small smile that already felt dangerously contagious. "One cannot ask for more of anyone. Least of all you."

He blinked away a suspicious sheen of moisture.

He didn't know what to think about that.

"I am sorry," T'Challa said after a moment, looking over at him. Hand back in that in-between zone like an overture. Daring him to straighten his fingers so the tips could brush. "I'm sorry you had to do what you did for me. I fear the cost was higher than I will ever know."

It was.

But it wasn't.

That was the worst part.

Because deep down, part of him liked the color red and likely always would.

It was coded into him

"Don't be," he murmured, knowing full well he'd do it again –  _for him_  – in a heartbeat. "You were worth it."

The older woman sitting by the grave had fallen silent. But it wasn't an empty sort of quiet. It was contemplative. Thoughtful. As if she were giving emotions other than grief and loss the opportunity to be heard. He'd never identified with something so keenly.

"You rescued me, and it caused you pain. You are my friend, Everett... the thought of you enduring the last six months alone pains me. Especially since I am the cause."

But he wasn't listening.

Instead, he was wondering what it meant that T'Challa hadn't mentioned the moment he caught him against the frame of the cell, holding him up. Unable to help himself from scenting into the man's neck. Inhaling throatily as the sound of distant screams echoed down the hall. He'd been so high on bloodlust he'd nearly forgot himself.

"Thank you for coming, for being here," he offered, shifting awkwardly, like he could shake off the lingering second-hand embarrassment. "I mean it."

"Of course," T'Challa answered, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "We researched the area extensively, but you've hidden you tracks well. The records only show that an anonymous donor paid for the grave to be exhumed and moved here a year before the construction of the overflow parking lot on the original site was slated to start. Shuri had to go back through the satellite images – in fact she created an entirely new algorithm. It took a while, but she discovered you visited every year on this date. I felt as though you were sending a message when you told her. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come."

It was a surreal confession. Especially considering he'd arrived into the cemetery that afternoon completely unsure of what he was walking into. Or with who. He knew S.H.E.I.L.D was still looking for him. They had his apartment under surveillance. And of course, all his access cards and codes had been changed. With Wakanda, well, he hadn't quite known where they stood.

"I wasn't sure it would be you," he admitted, smiling slightly at his well-earned paranoia. "I thought maybe someone would be here to tie up loose ends. Put me down."

"Would you've let them?" T'Challla asked curiously.

It was a good question.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I've been alive for a long time."

He let it rest there. Knowing the power of what he left unsaid was a far better explanation than he could ever hope to achieve. He'd watched the world change far too much to be scared of death.

"What now?"

"I want you to come home," T'Challa blurted, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. Awkward and louder than he intended as their shoulders brushed. Making warm smells raise quickly.

He exhaled, unsteady but happy.

"I'd like that. If I'm welcome."

"You are," T'Challa hurried to say, clearly on a roll. Because this time he threw caution to the wind and extended his hand, palm up. Smiling when he took it with barely a hitch of hesitation. Bringing his hand close, like he never wanted to let go, before lifting it to his lips for a soft kiss.

It was a warming thought.

"Now what?" he asked after a long moment, clearing his throat as emotion threatened to get the better of him.

"We can just sit for a while, if you'd like?"

He nodded, staring quietly at the headstone. Enjoying the unexpected feeling of peace that had washed over him as he squeezed T'Challa's hand in acknowledgement.

"I'd like that."

The silence was comfortable until T'Challa suddenly broke it. Letting go of a gentle, smothered-sounding chuckle before waving his hand, signaling him to ignore it. Looking for all the world like he'd just remembered something hilarious.

"Well?" he prompted. Not about to let something like that go as T'Challa struggled to compose himself.

"Do you know what they are calling you at S.H.E.I.L.D?"

His eyebrows made a bid for his hairline as he shook his head.

_This ought to be good._

"Code name: Dracula," T'Challa laughed. Filling the air with pleasant sounds as the older woman turned to look at them, first nonplussed, then warm. The tired lines of her face softening into a smile he couldn't help but return. Squeezing T'Challa's hand, confident that at least for now, the rest of the world could wait it's turn.

They had time, after all.


End file.
